


my body, unreal

by screechfox



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Archivist Jon, Fix-It of Sorts, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Jon is a canon-typical disaster archivist, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Resurrection, Season/Series 04, lowkey melanie/sasha on sasha's side but i don't know if i'll take it further
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-06
Updated: 2019-09-13
Packaged: 2020-08-10 18:17:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20139874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/screechfox/pseuds/screechfox
Summary: The last thing Sasha remembers is screaming.It all seems very far away, like the faded memory of a nightmare from years ago. She remembers the pain too, divorced from all context — an indescribable sum of agony that seems too impossible to fit neatly into her brain. The feeling of every atom of Sasha James being unmade, one by one.“It was a lot of effort to put you back together,” someone remarks, tone mild.Helen brings Sasha back to life. More or less.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> oh god why am i doing this, i am notoriously bad at finishing longfics and by longfics i mean anything longer than two chapters that aren't already written when i post it. plus my productivity is about to go way down bc i have a new laptop and that means Video Games
> 
> i will do my best *fingers crossed*

The last thing Sasha remembers is screaming. 

It all seems very far away, like the faded memory of a nightmare from years ago. She remembers the pain too, divorced from all context — an indescribable sum of agony that seems too impossible to fit neatly into her brain. The feeling of every atom of Sasha James being unmade, one by one.

“It was a lot of effort to put you back together,” someone remarks, tone mild.

Sasha forces her eyes open — she hadn’t even realised they were closed — and the world is a blur of colour. Everything feels distant, as though she isn’t quite connected to her own body, but she has enough awareness to note that her glasses are nowhere to be found. As if this situation wasn’t disorienting enough.

The only exception to the unfocused world is the woman crouching over Sasha, a curious tilt to her head. She’s pleasant-looking, in an unremarkable sort of way, and the curls of her hair are cut in a neat bob that just screams real-estate agent. She is vivid with clarity against the distorted background of their surroundings. Sasha feels a wave of unease quite unrelated to the half-remembered sensation of being taken apart cell by cell.

“I was trying to think of a way to convince the Archivist that I’m trustworthy,” the woman continues, tapping her fingers against her professional black skirt. “Well, to convince him that I’m not his enemy, at least.”

Given the situation, there’s a lot for Sasha to process. After a moment’s thought, she decides to start with the easy questions.

“The Archivist?” Sasha’s voice sounds strange to her own ears, wrong in a way that she can’t identify. She coughs, but it doesn’t seem to help, so she resigns herself to the oddity. “Do you mean Jon?”

“Hm, yes, I suppose so. Your lot really are so hung up on names, aren’t you? You can call me Helen, if you like.”

Sasha struggles to put her thoughts in order when that phrasing rings a bell — a bell that is somehow tinny and echoing all at once, a self-contradictory sound.

“You’re like Michael,” she realises at last.

“I suppose that’s one way of putting it.”

“How would you put it?”

“Well, I suppose Michael was me, and now Helen is me instead. Life has its strange little ups and downs like that, doesn’t it?” Helen smiles, showing all — and Sasha means _ all _ — of her teeth. She folds her hands together in what would be a demure gesture on anyone else, fingers knotting together in off-putting ways.

A genderfluid monster is a concept that strikes Sasha as faintly surreal, but apparently this is her life now. Evil worms and distorted people and… _ pain. _

“What happened?”

“Now _ that’s _ a complicated question, with a whole range of potential answers.”

“What happened to _ me?” _

“Oh, you were killed.”

Sasha blinks. Then she blinks again, as though that will help the world resolve into something sensible. Colours shift in her vision in a way that doesn’t seem normal even without glasses, and she can’t tell where she is.

“Not by me,” Helen adds, even though Sasha hadn’t got that far yet. “Something else. The Stranger, playing its tricks. I understand it was quite distressing for everyone involved.”

Sasha blinks for a third time, somehow still surprised when the world remains stubbornly nonsensical around her.

“... How long has it been?”

Helen shrugs, shoulders moving far past where they should be.

“Hard for me to say, but a good long while. All kinds of things have happened since.”

Well, that answers the question that Sasha actually meant: _ how much have things changed without me? _ A lot, by the sounds of it. Sasha takes a shaky breath. Of course things would change while she was— dead. Now she just has to adapt. Maybe get a new job.

That line of thought brings to mind Jon and Martin. In her memory, they’re still in the storage room, terrified and tired and unhappy, shouting after her as she tried to get to Tim. She has no idea what happened to them, she realises.

“Jon’s alright, you said—” Helen’s expression sharpens into something like offense, probably because she said nothing of the sort, but Sasha forces herself to ignore it. “What about everyone else? Tim? Martin? … Elias?”

Helen is silent. Sasha braces for the worst, a hollow feeling in her stomach like something’s been carved out of her. Then Helen throws her head back, laughing and laughing and laughing. The low sound of her chuckles echoes in Sasha’s brain. She presses a hand to her mouth in a semblance of politeness, but it does nothing to stop the chills going up and down Sasha’s spine. Helen makes eye contact, and between one blink and the next, her expression is serious and neutral again, as though she’d never laughed at all. 

“I’m not very welcome in the Archives,” Helen says, a half-answer that makes Sasha’s hopes rise even as her stomach drops. “That’s why I brought you back.”

Sasha wants to insist — she has to _ know _ that everyone is okay — but the look on Helen’s face suggests that there aren’t going to be any clear answers in the near future. Instead, Sasha asks a question she isn’t sure she wants the answer to.

“If I was— dead, how did you bring me back?”

Helen smiles. It’s a sympathetic expression, but something about the way her lips curl at the corners makes Sasha snap her mouth shut. No more questions. Got it.

“You and the Archivist are very similar, aren’t you?”

Helen reaches out as though she’s about to caress Sasha’s cheek. Sasha flinches back, hitting her head against a hard wooden surface behind her and making bright spots of colour burst across her vision. Helen’s smile spirals at the corners, but her hand drops to her side, so that’s something of a victory.

“Let’s get you down to the Archives,” Helen says, and there might even be kindness in her tone.

Sasha pushes herself to her feet — _ without _ Helen’s help — and glances around at their surroundings. She squints at any detail that could identify where they are, and comes to the conclusion that they’re in the center of Artefact Storage, surrounded by shelves of supernatural objects. It’s hard to tell, but they might even be in the room where that table was being kept, not that there’s any sign of it anymore.

Well, the Archives it is, Sasha supposes. It’s not like she’s got anywhere better to go right now, what with being recently dead.

The first thing Sasha notices is that Jon, too, is crystal clear in the blur of the world. It’s very different to Helen’s polite affectation of possibility; Jon simply _ is, _ a stubbornly inarguable fact of the world. Sasha feels like she can see every detail of him in perfect clarity.

The second thing she notices is how tired he looks. He makes the Jon of her recollections look downright well-rested in comparison. When Helen knocks on the doorframe — the sound out of sync with her movements — it takes Jon a few moments to look up from his work. He sighs, pushing himself into a standing position on legs that shake under his weight.

“Hello, Helen,” he says, in a pointedly flat tone of voice. “Was there something you wanted?”

Helen smiles amiably, and it actually seems genuine this time. The idea that this terrifying, nonsensical _ thing _ feels some kind of affection towards Jon is almost worse than… anything else that’s happened in Sasha’s recent memory. Almost.

“I’ve brought you a gift, Archivist,” Helen replies, gesturing at Sasha.

Jon’s brow furrows as his eyes glance over Sasha. You’d think he’d be happy to see a friendly work acquaintance back from the dead, but there’s no recognition in his eyes. He looks back at Helen, and there’s a silent question in the narrowing of his eyes. 

(Sasha isn’t always the best at reading people, especially not Jon, but… He looks almost _ hungry. _ His gaze is intense and unblinking, and she finds herself grateful he isn’t looking at her.)

Sasha steps forward, and frowns as Jon takes a wary step back, matching the distance. Worry purses his lips and tilts his head, but he isn’t scared. The lines of his shoulders are relaxed, his hands are still at his sides, and there’s an unhappy confidence to the gleam of his eyes.

“Jon?”

At the sound of Sasha’s voice, Jon’s entire demeanour changes. Surprise, confusion, hope, sadness; all of them cross his face in a matter of moments.

“I— Is— _ Sasha?” _

“A peace offering, Archivist,” Helen says. “In the spirit of our friendship.”

Almost immediately, Jon’s expression is nothing but wry resignation. This, at least, is a familiar emotion to see on his face — it feels like only a few hours ago that he was laughing at his own morbid sense of humour while they were trapped in the storage room. Sasha wonders if he still makes jokes like that, or if his clear exhaustion has robbed him of even _ that _ self-deprecation.

“Right. So it’s not— You’re just playing with my mind, is that it? Making me _ think _ it’s— Christ. Of course you are. Why would I expect anything less?”

“I’m not deceiving you, Archivist. I told you, I wouldn’t _ dare. _ I just thought—”

“It’s not deception if you can make it real, though, is it?” Jon gestures vaguely in Sasha’s direction with a flutter of nervous fingers. “The Spiral is all about the fear that your world isn’t real; I don’t see how this is any different.”

“Honestly, if I _ wanted _ to drive you mad, there would be far easier ways to do it.” Sasha shoots Helen an alarmed look, but finds herself ignored. “I put a lot of effort into doing this for you. As you well know, permanence isn’t my specialty.”

Sasha watches as Jon seems to process that, another flurry of emotions crossing his face. Finally, he sags in resignation, eyes scanning Sasha once again. Sasha shifts, unable to help the feeling that she’s being assessed on some metric she knows nothing about.

“So that— that really _ is _ Sasha.”

“More or less,” Helen comments with a shrug. “She’s certainly closer to the Sasha James who died that day than you are to the Jonathan Sims who lived.” Jon flinches. “But, since you apparently distrust me _ so much, _ you could always ask _ her.” _

Sasha straightens up, taking that as her cue to re-enter the conversation.

“Jon, it’s—” Jon cuts her off with a raised hand. He glances away with a guilty cast to his face, but when he looks back, chin raised, he is every inch the imperious Head Archivist he always tried to pretend himself to be. 

“Who are you?” Jon asks, crisp and clear.

“Sasha James, Archival Assistant at the Magnus Institute.” It’s only after she says it that she realises how quickly the answer came. She didn’t even have to think about it, it just… happened. “... Jon?”

Everything is still for a moment, then Jon nods and sighs, shoulders dropping again. He looks— very tired.

“... I’m sorry, Sasha.”

Helen smiles, pleased, and steps back across the threshold.

“Come by later, Archivist. I’m sure you’ll have plenty to say to me.”

The door shuts, and then it’s just Sasha and Jon, alone in an office that hasn’t got any less disorganised while Sasha’s been gone. Jon sighs again and refuses to meet her eyes.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Sasha talk. Briefly, Daisy interjects.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i guess i wrote more of this fic, huh!
> 
> shout out to [Rewind and Record Over](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20286901) by novelDaydreamer for giving me the steam i needed to finally finish this chapter. if you like this fic, you should definitely go read that!

The Archives are… weirdly quiet.

Sasha is used to Tim being on the phone, sweet-talking whoever he was going out with at the time; Martin’s nervous chatter and endless cups of tea; the low sound of Jon’s voice recording statements at all hours. Now there’s only silence, so oppressive and cold that she shivers.

Jon sighs for a third time, and even that sound is deadened.

For all he’s trying to avoid meeting Sasha’s eyes, his gaze is unerringly focused on her. He doesn’t so much as blink. His eyes move across her body with systematic precision, like he’s trying to catalogue every inch of her appearance. Creepy, maybe, but given that she’s been dead, Sasha is trying to give him the benefit of the doubt.

“You’re not what I—” Jon starts, then seems to think better. When he continues, his voice is stilted and uncertain; Sasha is used to him being, well,  _ unsociable, _ but now he seems actively awkward. “How are you, Sasha?”

“Confused,” Sasha says after a moment’s thought, “and I’ve got a headache.”

“I know the feeling.” Jon smiles tiredly. “Even when Helen is  _ allegedly _ trying to help, she—  _ it _ is never the forthcoming sort.”

Sasha nods in the politest agreement she can muster.

“I’ve got a lot of questions about everything. But first—” Sasha winces for effect, rubbing at her forehead, “—do you know where my glasses are? I wasn’t kidding about the headache.”

Jon gives her a look of utter incomprehension, and she’s about to repeat the question when his expression crumples. His lips press together, bitter with unhappiness, and a quiet grief sits in the lines around his eyes, as though he’s lost something very precious.

“Of course you wear—” He cuts himself off again, forcing a smile that is as sardonic as it is unconvincing. “We’re a similar prescription, you can use mine.” Jon doesn’t wait for her to answer before slipping the glasses from his face. Without them, his exhaustion is even more obvious, dark circles staining the skin beneath his eyes like spilled ink.

Sasha hesitates.

Jon doesn’t look pleased to give up his glasses. He rubs the bridge of his nose with his free hand, then fixes her with an intense gaze. In the dim light of the office, the brown of his irises is nearly black. It makes him look like his eyes are all pupil, devouring pits craving every scrap of light they can absorb. Honestly, the effect is downright spooky, and Sasha kind of wants him to put the glasses back on.

“I don’t— actually need them anymore,” Jon says, sounding so very tired.

Sasha takes the glasses. They don’t fit the shape of her head properly, but they make the world equalise into something like normality. Everything becomes the same level of slightly-blurred, and she feels her headache begin to ease.

(On the edges of her vision, the colours of the world still shift and meld together, a whole spectrum of incomprehensible hues that are giving her an entirely different headache. It’s— it’s fine. She was brought back from the dead, this is probably just a side effect.)

When Sasha focuses her gaze on Jon again, he’s giving her a strange, far-off look. For the first time since Helen left, he makes proper eye contact with her, offering her another tired smile.

“You have questions.”

“That’s an understatement,” Sasha says with a shaky laugh. “... Where do I start?”

Jon watches her, expectant; it seems to take him a moment to realise that was a genuine question on Sasha’s part. Same old Jon.

“I don’t really know, if I’m honest with you. So much has happened that I— well, I’ve rather lost perspective on matters.”

“... How long have I been gone?”

“Almost two years to the day,” Jon says without hesitation. He raises his eyebrows as soon as the words leave his mouth, taken aback. “Christ, it feels like it’s been longer.”

Two years. Sasha has missed  _ two years. _ It’s surprisingly hard to conceptualise — it isn’t as though there’s a void in her mind where the loss should be. She’s just skipped straight from murderous parasitic worm-people to something new that, by Jon’s obvious exhaustion, might not be much better.

Jon’s jaw clenches, and his gaze darts away from her face. When he speaks, his tone is low with reluctance — there’s something he doesn’t want to tell her. Maybe  _ a lot _ he doesn’t want to tell her.

“I’m sorry, Sasha, I—”

There’s a knock at the door, and Jon full-body startles, swearing quietly under his breath.

“Come in, Daisy,” he calls, giving Sasha an apologetic look. Now she really has seen everything.

The door opens part way and a woman — Daisy, presumably — leans against the doorframe, faux-casual. She’s nearly as tall as Sasha, which is a refreshing novelty to focus on. She has short unstyled hair, an inch or two grown out from a buzzcut, maybe. Her clothes have clearly been chosen for comfort and practicality rather than style or formality; they aren’t exactly the loosely-enforced dress-code of an archival assistant. 

“You alright? I heard voices.”

There’s a wary cast to her face, and it only intensifies when she spots Sasha. Strangely, the suspicion doesn’t seem to be  _ directed _ at her — Daisy’s gaze turns back to Jon, and there’s an obvious sadness to the silent raise of her eyebrows and the downwards curve of her mouth. Jon sighs, shaking his head in response to whatever unspoken communication is happening.

“No, I’m not— Daisy, this is Sasha. Sasha, Daisy.” Jon waves a hand between them like that will make all his social obligations in this situation magically go away.

“Nice to meet you,” Sasha says, even though she can barely process the event. It makes sense that they’d hire someone new after she died, of course it does, but— any second now, Sasha is going to have some kind of breakdown. Given how far away everything feels, she may be having one already.

“You too,” Daisy replies, sounding less than genuine. She peers at Sasha, something assessing to her gaze. Not hungry, exactly, not in the same way as Jon’s unblinking stare, but… strange. Sasha shifts uncomfortably, unwilling to back down. “Hold on,  _ that _ Sasha?”

“Yes,” Jon says.  _ “That _ Sasha.”

Daisy raises her eyebrows in an expression of distinct dubiousness.

“You’re sure about that?”

_ “Yes.” _

”Right.” Daisy examines Sasha for a moment longer. “Well, good to have you on the team.” She glances back at Jon, tilting her head. “Have you told her—”

“No, Daisy, I haven’t had a  _ chance _ to tell her much of anything.” The pointed annoyance in Jon’s tone is very familiar. Daisy rolls her eyes and Sasha attempts to give her a commiserating look, though she gets the feeling it comes out mildly pained.

“Well, Melanie and I are going on a food run later. You want something?”

“No, no, I’m fine, thank you.” Daisy gives him an unreadable look. “Really, Daisy. I’m fine.”

“... Suit yourself.”

There’s a silence so awkward it’s practically tangible, and Sasha gets the feeling that they’re staying quiet for her sake. She should probably be grateful, but she’s desperate to know what she’s missed in the two years she’s been gone.

“Actually,” Jon says, and Daisy rolls her eyes again. “Can you tell Melanie that I’d like to—” Jon glances towards Sasha with an expression of reluctant happiness. “Just tell her something, I suppose.”

Daisy’s expression warms, though there’s still that undertone of wariness. She nods.

“Will do. Anything else?”

“No, I— If you see Martin…” Jon trails off and waves a dismissive hand. “Nevermind. You won’t see Martin.”

There’s another tense silence as a chill seems to blow through the room. Sasha shivers, wishing that whatever weird resurrection she’d gone through had provided her with a jacket.

Daisy nods after a moment, reaching for the door again— then hesitating, with another sidelong glance in Sasha’s direction.

“You  _ are _ sure?”

“Yes,” Jon says with a long sigh. “I asked.”

Daisy’s lips press together unhappily at that, but she nods, satisfied. She turns and leaves without any fanfare, shutting the door behind her.

“Tim’s dead, isn’t he?” Sasha doesn’t even realise she’s speaking until she hears her voice — doesn’t even realise she’s made that connection until she processes her own words.

The look on Jon’s face is the only answer she needs.

“Okay,” Sasha says, taking one deep breath and then another.

“... Are you alright?”

“No, Jon, I’m not.”

In through her nose and out through her mouth. She can’t afford to cry in front of Jon.

Sasha tries to tell herself she already knew Tim was probably dead. She hadn’t  _ accepted _ it, exactly, but she was trying not to think about it until she knew the Prentiss thing was over. There is a time and place for being upset, and though Sasha doesn’t consider herself  _ brave, _ she prides herself on keeping a clear head in times of crisis. So she already knew Tim was dead, and she was dealing with it. She  _ was. _

“Prentiss got him, then.” Her voice sounds hollow to her own ears, choked in a throat that feels thick with unshed tears.

Jon raises his eyebrows like the idea hadn’t even occurred to him.

“No, actually, I—” Jon shakes his head. “It was something else. About a year ago now.”

Sasha’s mind is whirling with guilty questions and quizzical grief all at once. She doesn’t want to know, she tells herself, but she knows that’s a lie. But what is she supposed to ask?

“We were setting off an explosion in a wax museum,” Jon explains, answering a question she hadn’t even thought of yet. She feels her thoughts skitter to a stop as she tries to process  _ that. _ “He— he didn’t ever tell you about his brother Danny, did he?”

How does Jon know that? Why does Jon know things about Tim that she doesn’t? What gives him the right to look so infuriatingly calm? The gentle sadness in the curve of his lips is the only sign that he shares any of her grief.

“He blew up the building while we were still inside. He was right to, in the circumstances, but he died hating me. He saved the world, but only out of spite. Spite for me, for the Institute, for— I couldn’t save him. It’s— it’s my fault he’s dead.”

All at once, the flow of certainty pouring from his lips ceases as quickly as it began. Jon takes a shaky breath.

“I— I’m sorry, Sasha.”

“It’s fine,” she says, even though it’s definitely not. “I know you’re much better with the facts than with the feelings. It’s— it’s fine.”

Jon nods. A flicker of guilt crosses his face before it’s swallowed by that strange black-hole intensity once again. He hasn’t blinked once since she entered the room.

“Can I ask— What  _ happened? _ From your perspective, I mean.”

Sasha finds herself laughing, faintly hysterical. Anything not to give into tears.

“Jon, are you taking my statement?”

Jon’s eyes go wide-eyed and shocked, like he’s just been accused of— murder, or something. The moment breaks as he quirks his lips with a wry humour that Sasha  _ really _ doesn’t like.

“Well, it can’t hurt,” he mutters sardonically, more to himself than to her. He composes himself into his usual academic neutrality, though his gaze is even more intense than it was before. Hungry, again, and she doesn’t know for what. “Yes, Sasha. For the record.”

There wasn’t a tape recorder on the desk, Sasha is sure of it, but that doesn’t stop Jon from reaching out and switching it on.

“Statement of Sasha James, Assistant Archivist at the Magnus Institute, London, regarding events during the attack of the entity formerly known as Jane Prentiss, 29th of July, 2016. Statement recorded direct from subject, 1st of August, 2018.”

There’s a split-second where his composure breaks into resignation with a quiet inhale.

“Statement begins.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so uh. i guess i _have_ to write more of this fic now, with that chapter ending. fun fact: originally jon was going to distract sasha from her grief by putting on the archers but i decided this would be more fun and/or depressing, so i guess the episode of the archers i listened to as research was a waste


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> look at me, continuing a longfic for the third chapter in a row! apparently the secret to not getting burnt-out is to write other things in between chapters, who knew?

It isn’t as though Sasha hasn’t given a statement before. She remembers the way the words spilt out, her memories pulled into sharp focus as though she was looking at them through a microscope. It got a little weird, sure, but nothing like this.

As Sasha gives her statement, it’s like she’s reliving it; every sentence dredges up all those horrors she’d been trying so hard to ignore. Her breath hitches with each awful memory, but no matter how much Sasha wishes otherwise, she can’t stop talking. The words are being dragged from her throat with merciless force.

Jon just _ watches _ her.

There’s something about his eyes. She’s been thinking that since she entered the room, of course, but she can’t rationalise it anymore. Hungry is too kind a word — he looks _ ravenous. _ His dark-eyed gaze captures every fragment of her fear and swallows it live and struggling.

It’s strange; Sasha only realises that tears are blurring her vision when she reaches the end of her statement. Her hands shake as she wipes at her face. 

“Statement ends,” Jon says quietly, calmly, like he isn’t watching her melt down in front of him. He switches the tape recorder off with languid, unhurried movements and an expression of utter satisfaction; the very essence of the cat who got the canary.

Sasha tries to find _ something _ to say, but it’s like her chest has been hollowed out and filled with this terrible mixture of panic and sadness and grief. She hasn’t had a chance to process _ any _ of it, and now everything has been dragged to the surface all over again. She takes great gasps of air and tries to shake off the feeling that she’s drowning.

“Thank you, Sasha,” Jon continues, still so quiet and calm, so _ reasonable. _ “Maybe you should get some rest. I know you’ve had a lot to take in today.”

“... Alright,” Sasha manages, and somehow, her voice is even.

Jon offers a hand — some detached part of her brain notes the twisted pattern of scarring across his palm and fingers — and she takes it. Anything to stop feeling so unmoored.

With more gentleness than Sasha would have expected, Jon leads her through the corridors. He doesn’t say a word, leaving her alone with her thoughts. Every time she blinks, she thinks she sees worms squirming across the floor, but… there’s nothing. The halls are empty of all life except the two of them, footsteps echoing far too loudly. By the time they reach the storage room, she’s managed to coax her breathing into something resembling normality. A slow sense of dread is rising; as soon as they enter, Sasha expects to be hit with another wave of memory, but it doesn’t come.

Inside, the storage room is downright homely, especially compared to when she last saw it. More people than Martin have been living here, and for longer than he did.

“Jon, what—” Sasha cuts herself off, not knowing what it is she wants to ask him.

The first sign of conflict crosses Jon’s face, breaking through that eerie composure. Then he sighs in familiar resignation and gestures to one of the unoccupied cots. 

“Just get some rest, Sasha.”

Sasha opens her mouth to ask again, but the words stick in her throat. Jon watches her with a patience that is utterly alien on the harsh lines of his face. Somehow, Sasha knows that he’s willing to wait as long as it takes for her to give in — Jon isn’t going to blink first.

As she sits down, the world feels very distant, like she’s moving through a dream.

“Thank you,” Jon says again, quieter this time. He gives her another all-consuming stare, then he turns and leaves the room. His footsteps echo down the halls, and after a few moments of silence, she hears him begin to speak, that familiar cadence of him assessing a statement.

Nothing about this situation should comfort her, but the wordless resonance of his voice helps to lull Sasha to an uneasy slumber.

> [click]
> 
> [prolonged sigh]
> 
> A year ago, I would have found it fascinating how similar Sasha’s statement was to that of the being that replaced her. I’m sure with the right investigating, this could act as some great insight into how it operates, what interaction it has with the memories of those it kills. In all honesty, I can’t bring myself to care anymore.
> 
> Sasha is alive. And she _ is _ Sasha. Or at least, she thinks she is, which I suppose is good enough up until she tries to kill me — and at this point, she can join the club. It isn’t as though I don’t deserve it.
> 
> I hurt her. I pulled it out of her without hesitation, because I needed to— … Well, it doesn’t mean anything now. Maybe I should have waited until she was settled into the Archives again. But would that have just made it worse for her?
> 
> [barely audible] If it was worse for her, would it be _ better _ for me?
> 
> …
> 
> I know I should feel guilty. There’s always been guilt, at least eventually. But I— I don’t feel _ anything. _ Just calm. I’m focused and— and clear-headed, like I’m finally waking up. I feel better than I have in weeks.
> 
> Christ, what the hell happened to me?
> 
> …
> 
> [humourless laugh] Well, I know what’s happened to me, don’t I? I made a choice. I can’t stop myself from making choices. I shouldn’t— I _ can’t _ let it happen again.
> 
> End recording.
> 
> [click]

It takes Sasha long moments to pull herself from her nightmares.

She shifts as she forces her eyes open, trying to remind herself where she is. The storage room. The Archives. Two years after her own death. What a way to wake up.

Someone has pulled a blanket over her while she was sleeping. It’s soft, an unexpected comfort, and she tugs it closer as she gets her bearings. Everything feels distant and aching, but remembering how she felt before she slept, she’ll count this as an improvement.

A short dark-haired woman is sitting on one of the other cots, headphones on as she stares at her laptop. Sasha squints, shifting to get a better look, and it only takes a moment to match the woman up with—

“It’s Melanie, isn’t it?”

The woman startles, swearing loudly, and yes, Sasha recognises that voice.

Melanie turns to face Sasha, slipping her headphones off and closing her laptop as she does so.

“Yes, that’s me.” She sounds much more tired than Sasha remembers, like all that life and passion that seemed to power her has been drained away. “And you’re Sasha James. Back from the dead.”

“Apparently.” Sasha pushes herself into a sitting position, keeping the blanket tight to her chest.

The world still pulses with colour at the edges. Occasionally tendrils of unnameable hues reach into the centre of her vision, distorting reality. Each time, she feels a prickling sensation along the lines of her joints, like she’s being pulled apart all over again, but gently.

Sasha dreamed, she knows, and she didn’t dream well, but it’s all so blurred. There are only the faintest echoes in amongst the brightly sparking pinwheels that haze across her recollections. Worms, crawling and writhing. Pain, worse than she can fully contain within herself. The only vivid memory is Jon’s watching eyes, so crystal-clear that she nearly sees them in front of her.

Melanie is giving her a strange look, and Sasha shakes herself out of her daze.

“How have you been?” Sasha asks, deciding that’s a safe enough question to ask. The curiosity vanished under her emotions earlier — yesterday? — but now it’s back in force, a double-edged distraction.

There’s a long silence. Melanie’s expression shifts unreadably.

“Fine, I guess,” she says at last, in the tone of someone who isn’t fine at all.

“You’re… working here now?”

Melanie laughs, the sound so bitter that Sasha is sharply reminded of Jon.

“More like I’m a prisoner, but yeah. Count me in as an official Archives assistant.”

There is no way Sasha is awake enough to unpack _ any _ of that.

“No more Ghost Hunt UK?” Sasha hopes her tone comes off as teasing, but she gets the feeling it’s more plaintive than anything. Ghost Hunt UK isn’t exactly _ research, _ she agrees with Jon on that much, but that doesn’t mean Sasha isn’t allowed to enjoy it in her time off. 

“No, Ghost Hunt UK—” Melanie pauses, another complicated expression crossing her face. Then she takes a deep breath, visibly calming herself, and puts on an affectation of haughtiness. “Let’s just say that every celebrity has their scandals and leave it at that.”

The genuine good humour surprises a laugh out of Sasha.

“That’s a shame,” she says, revelling in the feeling of smiling. “You were— _ the show _ was good.”

“Oh?” Melanie raises her eyebrows, and finally, there’s a resemblance to the woman Sasha spoke to a few months — over two years — ago. “Am I speaking to a fan?”

Sasha flushes, pulling the blanket close to herself like that will hide her embarrassment.

“Well, I watched some of it,” she says, trying for the same faux-haughtiness that Melanie had, and probably not hitting the mark. “Professional curiosity, you understand.”

Melanie cackles with genuine amusement, eyes glittering.

“That’s a good impression of Jon you’ve got there. Almost like he was in the room with us.”

Melanie’s grin is just as dazzling as Sasha remembers it being, if a little sharper at the edges. Sasha glances away, flustered despite everything, but smiling as well.

“I can’t do the stuffy academic thing as well as he can.”

“He’s toned it down over the years, which is… about all he’s got going for him, really.” Melanie’s expression turns to an unhappy kind of musing, and Sasha already misses that grin. She takes a moment to rack her brain for _ anything _ that won’t set off another emotional spiral.

“Have I missed any good films?”

Melanie’s brows raise, then she smiles. Not dazzling, but not bitter either. She reaches for her laptop and gestures for Sasha to come and sit next to her.

“I don’t watch many films, but I’m sure I can find _ something.” _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> see, i'm not _always_ mean to sasha. she and melanie can have a good netflix party together, and everything is groovy


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uhhh. long time no see on this fic i guess. most of this chapter was written back in august so i'll probably backdate it after a week or so. i have no idea if i'm going to carry on with this fic but i finished this chapter on a whim today so what the hell

In an admirable attempt at restraining himself, Jon waits several hours before finally knocking on the yellow door in the tunnels. It creaks open without a fight.

“You look well, Jon,” Helen purrs, corners of her mouth curling in a way that’s— well, it’s distinctly  _ Cheshire _ in manner. “You liked my gift after all, I take it? And here I was thinking it would go underappreciated.”

“Don’t talk about her like that.”

Helen’s smile widens into a grin, until Jon can see every one of her gleaming white teeth.

“Like what? By the looks of you, she made a very good meal. I’d ask if you treated all your friends like that, but I’m fairly sure I know the answer.” Her laugh is as terrible as it always is, and Jon’s stony glower makes no dent in her obvious amusement. “Don’t pretend you regret it.”

“I wasn’t going to,” Jon snaps, and Helen’s eyes only glitter all the more viciously.

“For a servant of the Eye, you  _ are _ prone to lying to yourself.”

“I’m not—” Jon sighs as Helen muffles another laugh behind her hand. He continues quieter, though his annoyance simmers to the surface all the same. “Look, that’s not why I’m here. Why did you bring her back?”

“I told you, she’s a peace offering.” The gentle flutter of her lashes doesn’t look any more innocent than Michael’s ever did. It is not what it is, after all. Still, Jon has known the Distortion for long enough to know that it delights in half-truths.

“Why  _ else?” _

“Call it an experiment,” Helen says after a moment’s pause. “Or perhaps multiple experiments.”

Jon raises his eyebrows, his jaw clenched tight. Helen stretches her fingers out — they look normal enough, but even with the tunnels leaving him blind and helpless, Jon can  _ sense _ the sharpness of them — and she begins to count them off.

“I wanted to see what you’d do, and how she’d affect your little Archives dramas. I enjoyed testing my own capabilities; this would never have been the sort of thing Michael would have considered. And in the end, I suppose I’m mostly just curious about what she’ll become.”

“What she’ll become,” Jon echoes, voice flat.

“You aren’t  _ that _ oblivious, are you, Jon?”

“No,” Jon mutters, when Helen doesn’t blink at his scrutiny. “I suppose I’m not.”

“I wouldn’t worry about it, if I were you. On a personality level, she’s much closer to one of yours than one of mine. So many  _ questions. _ No wonder you all missed her so terribly.”

“What did you do to her?”

_ “I _ brought her back. Something you had no ability to do. Michael’s memory of her was quite infallible, and while I may not have the Ceaseless Watcher’s gift for the preservation of painful knowledge, I’m not unskilled at creating things that shouldn’t exist.”

“Sasha isn’t a  _ thing.” _

“No more than any of us are things.” He doesn’t know who she means by  _ us, _ and the question is too heavy to ask. It hangs in the air unspoken, and she smirks at him with perfectly-painted lips. “Take your time, Archivist. I enjoy your company almost as much as your struggles.”

Jon exhales hard, his breath coalescing into mist in front of him.

(Would Martin want to know about this? Jon honestly isn’t sure anymore.)

“You shouldn’t have done it. I— I appreciate it, I think, but you shouldn’t have brought her back.”

“Rather rude to refuse a gift, I think,” Helen says, raising a brow.

“I’m  _ not— _ She shouldn’t be alive. She’s missed two years of tragedy and pain and death. I don’t even know how to tell her that her face is a stranger to me.”

“I’m sure you’ll figure something out.”

“… I can’t protect her. The others all know the risks, they know the world we’re a part of, how dangerous it is. Sasha doesn’t. She’s just— another person I have to protect, and I already know I can’t.”

“Of course you can’t.” Helen waves a hand in a dismissive motion, pointedly neutral and utterly unbothered. “We aren’t the sorts of things that can  _ protect _ people, Archivist.”

“Shut up,” Jon snaps, half snarling with his rising anger.

Helen holds up her hands, the most unconvincing expression of peace that Jon thinks he’s ever seen. He exhales again, clenching his fists so tightly that he knows there’ll be blood on his fingertips from where he digs into his own skin, even if the marks heal quickly.

“I’m happy that Sasha is alive again. She deserves that much. But what she doesn’t deserve is to become another in the long line of people I’ve gotten hurt. I have so much to watch already that I feel like my attention is fraying at the seams, and now I have to keep an eye on her too.”

“She might not appreciate that,” Helen comments mildly, delightedly.

“I’m the Archivist. She’s my responsibility.”

“Is she, though?” 

Jon scowls, ignoring the taunt laced through Helen’s smile.

“The others— you’re right, they don’t need my help.” Jon sighs. His hands don’t shake as he runs them through his hair, a novelty that comes with being warm and well-fed. “But Sasha doesn’t know what we’re dealing with.  _ I _ barely know what we’re dealing with.”

“You’re dealing with a charming little moral struggle, I’m dealing with the existential pain of having a concrete identity tied to my being.” Helen shrugs. Her teeth are very white, her canines very sharp. “We all have our problems. Coddling her won’t help her to face hers.”

“Where do you draw the line between— between helping and coddling?”

“That’s really not my concern, Jon. I’ve played my part in this little drama, at least for now. Go and rejoin your friend, before the others fill your role and begin to impart terrible knowledge.”

Jon growls, his gaze sharpening, and Helen raises her hands. To an outside observer, it would look like a pacifying gesture, but Jon knows it for the warning that it is.

“Go, Jon,” she repeats. 

Jon goes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> this will go one of two ways: either i will write more or i will not. i have no idea which will happen and i'm looking forward to finding out
> 
> you can find me on tumblr at [screechfoxes](https://screechfoxes.tumblr.com)


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